


The five stages of Grief - or AKA - that one Breakup which ended Badly

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e09 AKA Sin Bin, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6218425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica is blunt force trauma on a forward trajectory - she doesn't stop until she's toe to toe with him</p>
            </blockquote>





	The five stages of Grief - or AKA - that one Breakup which ended Badly

**Author's Note:**

> this story is written around Kilgrave's point of view - proceed with caution - possibly triggering, especially in relation to how he views Jessica and their so-called 'relationship'.

Jessica’s a bodyguard to begin with; the most versatile tool in his arsenal, beside Kilgrave’s own personal ability and to be frank, mind control is a _far_ superior gift.  

If nothing else, Jessica's handy for unscrewing difficult jars.

But she’s part of Kilgrave’s well-oiled kit; an alley-cat with milk-white skin.  It’s certainly how he thinks about her in the first month of their acquaintance – a tool to be used - and her strength is impressive; it marks her above the sheep that populate his everyday world. Like a magpie, Kilgrave covets bright things and Jessica is special. Well - different…. Well – a different kind of sheep at least, bleating in her obedience, rage clear in her eyes.

She’s a thing, a tool, a puppet on his string. Unlike all the other women Kilgrave tumbled into bed he doesn’t let Jess go, or grow bored with her company, Jessica’s power is his, both her frame and her despoiled temple.

Jessica has an appalling sense of fashion; the table manners of a sloth and a palette ruined by American fast food. She’s never been anywhere. _Done_ anything. Really, he’s Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle, re-educating her on the ways of the world, a benign mentor. Kilgrave is doing her a favour if she would take a minute to appreciate it, the finest clothes, best restaurants, most expensive hotels of the world laid for want at her naked feet.

She flinches when he approaches. Her eyes track him from one room to the next, narrow-eyed, a constant spark of dim-witted defiance present.

Her bleating starts to irritate his ears.  And if he hurts her sometimes, well, it's only for her own benefit.

They can spend hours in silence. They can spend hours between the sheets, until he is sweaty and exhausted, on the brink of unravelling. He whispers instructions against her skin, licks sweat from her breast, can feel the divot points, her fingertips drilling into his hip-bone. “Softer,” he coaxes. “Gentler, Jess.” He will scrape his face against her stomach, let his three days growth scratch her flesh rose. Limbs akimbo, Ophelia in her drowning bed, she will bite her lip bloody to deny the watery flood. She comes. He always makes her come, sometimes by effort; most often by a word, when he’s too tired to reciprocate her physically. Dishevelled, satisfied, he’ll curve into Jessica, his thigh over her legs, forearm across her breasts, his body a callous hook.

She’s a tool, but a well cared for one. He has no intention of blunting his finest instrument. They spend a year travelling together, and in that timeframe he doesn’t think about Jessica Jones the _person_ very much, she’s simply always there, a constant presence at his beck and call. The strangest thing is when she’s finally gone, he actually misses her. Their sporadic conversation; lovemaking; even the banked anger in her eyes.  _One step turns into two; stumbles into three, hastens into four and five. Jessica looks over her shoulder like she’s woken up from a stupor and Kilgrave’s greatest asset (his voice) has grown hoarse with shouted orders. She doesn’t listen. She hears none of it. Jessica walks away from Reva’s body, from Kilgrave without further consideration._

In Kilgrave’s personal timeline there is before the bus crash – and after the bus crash.

There’s a hacked out border across no-mans-land, where the earth has grown muddy with spilled blood (his) – Reva’s shattered ribcage doesn’t count - and the wire is barbed against future invasion. He rages against it. Paces the boundaries, restless in his spirit.  He hates her for leaving.

For having the presence of will, inner strength, to ignore his commands. Kilgrave hates her for the gasping agony of the impact when the bus sideswiped him and threw Kilgrave ten yards into the air.

The hate keeps Kilgrave conscious through the next forty-eight hours, mingled with terror as to what could happen next, if he lost control. He’s on his way to a hospital and he can’t allow it to happen; for scans to be performed.  For the threat of medical (scientific) discovery to become reality, of being drugged, _tied down,_ of becoming a lab-rat again.  He can't allow it . The terror spurs him into feats he didn’t think were possible; not even for himself. Kilgrave stays awake and alert, through the ambulance ride, the first agonizing surgery to stop the internal bleeding, the second surgery when the double organ transplant occurs, through to the plane ride that delivers him safely onto English soil. He doesn’t let this control slip, not for a moment, body broken into shards and his  _voice_ a bared dagger.

He _bleeds_ in those forty-eight hours and everyone within hearing distance bleeds with him.

Kilgrave recuperates on his home territory, licking his wounds in private. If he never thought about Jessica Jones the person before, well, she occupies every waking moment from then on.

There are stages to grief: denial and isolation is the first and he is sick with it. Jessica couldn’t have walked away. Misheard him maybe?  Certainly. But to exist outside of his power, to be  _immune_ , is impossible! Jessica’s strength wasn’t of the _mental_ variety after all; she was as susceptible as everyone else to his ability, as ordinary as the rest of the sheep. No one has stood against Kilgrave for thirty years.  Anger follows fast – because Jess _had_ heard him – because Kilgrave was yelling loud enough for the entirety of Brooklyn to hear and he might have told Jessica to cut her ears off once, but the act was never followed through. Oh, Jess heard him alright. She turned around to stare! She might as well have waved!  Jess had chosen to ignore Kilgrave and he was laid up, an invalid, because of it, sweating through P.T and relearning fine motor control in England’s infernal winter.

Anger burns hot for the next month while he learns how to walk again.  Imagining all the ways he’ll kill Jess the only inspiration he needs.  Later, magnanimously, he'll decide Jessica's the only reason why he's alive.  He couldn't have done it without her, the powder-keg of strong emotion egging him on.

It’s a slow transformation, a burgeoning obsession Kilgrave can’t ignore.

_Why_ was she immune? How? Was anyone else? No. Definitely not.   Then Jessica  _must_ be special and more so than Kilgrave first gave her credit for.  He replays their early days together, the pleasure of her hands, the usefulness of her skill. She was his _\- his discovery_ \- and if Kilgrave can’t have Jess then he sees no reason why any other man should. Somewhere between the steps of anger and bargaining, Jessica becomes human, a mystery, a cure for his boredom. In a wondrous transition, she becomes elevated, just like Kilgrave is elevated.

The first steps of grief, are denial and isolation, anger, and bargaining – unfortunately – Kilgrave’s bartering skills render him straight into captivity.

 

***

 

She cuts through the water with a roll to her hips, a sashay that draws his eyes downward. Jess’ skin is shark white against her black t-shirt and her expression is stubborn.

Uneasy, he says: “Are you not afraid I’ll touch you?”  

She was the one who established the rules.

“No. Afraid I’ll touch you?” Jessica parrots. Her hands are diminutive, deceptive; she tore a man’s head clean off with a single twist and presented it to an entire police station in a shopping bag. Everything about Jessica’s build is a showcase of mendaciousness. She doesn’t have a martial artists fluid mobility, or dance-like grace; she’s a brawler through and through. Jessica’s blunt force trauma on a forward trajectory; she doesn't stop until she’s toe-to-toe with him. “I remember how you liked to be touched.”

He schooled her in it. Kilgrave spent hours teaching her what he liked.

Jessica trails a forefinger from his collarbone to his left pectoral, lets it fall off the slope of his body. The angle of her head is partially dipped, coquettish, eyelashes a dark sweep across her pale cheekbone. Jess’ voice _does_ things to him, as if he had imparted his gift; let himself be infected by her proximity. Helpless, he stirs under the caress. Kilgrave bares his teeth in response. “Bad enough to shock me, but you have to toy with my emotions, too?” He’s hyperaware of the camera, of the electrical current humming beneath their feet. He’s aware his heart is beating too fast and Jessica must be aware of it, close as she is. Thrillingly, for the first time in his adult life he is truly, properly, afraid.  She doesn’t know it yet – but Jessica could kill him with a touch.

“Oh, you can have it, but I want you to beg for it first.”

It was always sex between them – rape she called it – but in Kilgrave’s mind it was sex, she always orgasmed, he never hurt her physically. He might have been indifferent to her desires but never deliberately cruel between the sheets.  In the end, any interaction between men and women is sex, Kilgrave thinks, and Jess has no hang-ups about using it against him now. They stare at one another, a ragged rift of space between their opposing bodies. Tongue caught between his teeth, Kilgrave refuses to answer.

_Come for me Jessica. Take your clothes off for me Jessica. You want me Jessica._

It was never begging, he wants to deny, not in the way Jessica implies. But Kilgrave was always the one to instigate sex because Jessica would never touch him otherwise. Jess’ mouth hooks into a sneer – the demarcation line between those two meanings smeared where begging _is_ ordering – and how she tars both words with an element of weakness. (His weakness) Her body language, to Kilgrave, is pure challenge.  

It's not about either of them, of course, the camera gives that away.  It's about the snivelling blonde in a women's prison an hours drive away but Kilgrave can play along for their invisible audience.

In response, he uncurls his fists, relaxes his pose, and watches her satisfaction dovetail into impatience. The slap is an explosion against his ear and cheek – painful and unexpected – Kilgrave’s rallying back with a snarled “Don’t – “ when he recalls he’s on film and stops mid-sentence, before he can issue an order and give away the secret of her immunity. Kilgrave pants out a harsh laugh because he has Jessica’s play now – order Jess to kiss him, or order Jess to stop _hurting_ him – either way, the next few minutes are going to be painful.

He’s afraid, but he won’t reveal his playing cards for her perusal.  On the plus side, Kilgrave’s definitely not bored.  “If that was foreplay,” he rasps. “I’m all in.”

“Then _do_ something about it.”

He thought about it, namely the first time she drugged him on the street - when he came to in his apartment Kilgrave realised he’d been absolutely, completely, helpless. Somnolent, vulnerable to Jess’ whim. There was a purpling bruise, a patchwork on his cheek, that he hadn’t been conscious for.  Oddly, Kilgrave was violently disappointed he had missed her touch (or punch). In the stolen window of missing time Jessica could have done _anything_ to him, and the thought was a plague, burning in the background of his waking thoughts.

Kilgrave checked his body afterward, curiously, his skin buzzing as he searched for her. In the shower, his tongue probed at the bloody hole in his back teeth while his hand slipped between his own legs. He could remember the supple weight of Jess, the surprising density of her muscles, and wondered what it would be like: to be held down, to be spread open, to be forced. He was powerless. _Is_ powerless. And the knowledge squirms in his chest, runs hot and cold, it makes his breath catch; the half-formed idea she could _make_ him submit.

(that he might willingly submit; if he could trust her, bend his neck in faith she wouldn’t behead him.  It would be recompense for the way they started out. _Will it make you feel better, if_ _I let you hurt me,_ to let this warzone manifest? He’d do it, she wouldn’t even need to tie him down, if it eased some of the discord between them).

 

 

After denial and isolation – anger - after bargaining on the steps of grief, comes wary acceptance ( _her_ acceptance in his rose-tinted world) when Jessica would _finally admit_ they were meant to be. There were issues in need of addressing, trust to be rebuilt, but he thinks their sex life is a ticking time bomb. He can’t make her come, at least, not without some effort on his behalf. He’s going to have to study her responses, focus outside of his own pleasure for once, possibly put her needs first.   He’s going to have to fumble around like an amateur, but he'll try. He’ll try his hand at anything -  saving idiot strangers, being polite to the puppets – sorry, sorry, servants - anything Jessica wants. Acceptance, in his mind, is easy: it starts with Jess accepting _them_ and flourishes when Kilgrave finally gets what _he_ wants. And Kilgrave wants what Jessica wants. Or did.

Given he's woken up in a cell, he might have to rethink their collective attitude.

Jessica’s shove sends him airborne. Kilgrave rattles into the far end of the cell wall and drops like a stone, all of the air gone from his lungs. He locks his legs before he can topple to the water and stumbles upright.

“Unless you can’t compel yourself to get it up?” Jessica teases.

His vision dimmed after the impact.  Kilgrave’s sucking in air like a marathon runner but he slumps boneless against the wall to grin at her. His shoulders press against the metal, legs splayed, hips canted suggestively.  “After that performance, you have my full attention.”

“Oh, you mean the slim Jim in your pants? You’re pathetic. You disgust me. All that power and you’re too afraid to use it!   Scared like a little momma’s boy. Come on, Kevin, be a big boy for mummy and daddy.”

She’s closing in again, violence like static in her bones. The hairs on his arms stand on end the closer she approaches, and he remembers the look in her eye, the night they first met. The next few hits are slaps, desultory, a feline correcting a cub. They rattle through him like percussion, the room spinning from wall to bunk, to floor, until he’s disorientated and gasping with it.  He’s aware of the camera. He’s always aware of cameras, he grew up hyper-vigilant around their presence, its unwinking eye remains a red beacon through the small explosions of hurt.

“I don’t know what you mean, you have all the power here!”

Ironic the first truth Kilgrave speaks is the one Jessica instantly overlooks.

She’s going to keep at him until he breaks - given the strength-ratio between their bodies - Kevin will snap like a twig before long. She’ll kill him by accident, fully expecting he can stop her at a word. Kilgrave knows it the moment she kicks him across the floor.  Drenched by water, on his hands and knees, he snarls at Trish for help.  When Jessica lifts him bodily, slams him against the window, the fear becomes visceral. For the first time his back is presented to the camera, no longer on film; his voice drops to a taunting whisper. They all think he can do something, but goading Jessica into further violence is his only choice, in hope Trish will take them _both_ out and end it. 

There’s blood dripping down his chin, Kilgrave’s swallowing nausea from the multiple head strikes and he can still recall the day they met. Jessica _liked_ beating those men up on the street. She enjoyed it.   Sure, she mumbled something about helping others but that’s the left hand distracting the right. Jessica was gifted with an extraordinary ability and she used it freely; same as Kilgrave did. There was a part of her, some small part, which revelled in the demonstration of power. She enjoyed hurting those men the same way she’s enjoying hurting Kilgrave _now_ \- except this time, there’s no one to save inside the holding cell – Jessica's doing it because she _wants_ to.  Alight with wrath, she's still the most beautiful creature he's seen.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Being in control.”  

Her eyes widen. Her face, her fist, closes with budding fury.   _Feels good, being like me,_ he means, and Jessica doesn't favour the comparison. The good news, Kilgrave isn’t aware when the electrical shock jolts through him, the first serious punch Jessica delivers renders him unconscious immediately, slack in her hold.  

Thank _Christ_ , though, because he doesn't like his chances if Jessica were left to her own devices - if it weren’t brought to an abrupt end, if she'd kept him conscious and hurting for hours more - he might just have given in.

In hindsight, Kilgrave thinks he missed a step or two, somewhere between bargaining and acceptance there’s - oh yeah... Depression.  

Kilgrave rolls over on the bunk, hand clamped over his ears, and wills himself not to throw up. He thought he could woo her, or win her, he thought given enough patience, he could convince Jessica to give him another chance. Turn the other cheek, or something like that, he was no good at the biblical scriptures. Except both of his cheeks are bruised and he spends the afternoon in the cell mulling on ways to torture _her_. He wants to, god he wants to, he hates her, but Jessica’s still the most real, important thing, in his existence.   He wants it to be like it was, when she loved him without question. Obeyed him without thought. When she didn’t speak her fucking mind.

Jessica, in turn, looks at him from the opposite side of the window like he’s something unfortunate caught on the bottom of her sole.

Kilgrave escapes.

He comes back.

He visits Jessica inside her apartment, bright eyed and bushy tailed, just asking for more as far as Jessica’s concerned. He’s not. Kilgrave really, _really_ wants his dad if it’s not too much bother and Jessica wants to secure Hope’s release under any circumstances, so it’s a perfect deal for all parties concerned. Jessica beats the ever-living crap out of him for suggesting it, one punch to put him down, duct tape over the mouth when Kilgrave’s semi-senseless. She sits on his torso to tie his hands together, wrapping the duct tape a dozen times around his wrists, and his eyes are glazed when she crawls off his chest and goes for his ankles like a terrier.  

Stunned, he twists on the floor of her bedroom, angling his hips downward as he rolls onto his belly. The newest bruise to his jaw hides the burn in his cheeks but Jessica looks up sharply when he shifts. She grabs his ankle, as if halting an escape attempt;  and flips Kilgrave straight onto his back, then wraps his legs from ankle to mid-calf like a professional cowpoke.

Jessica hasn’t killed him. Her rough hands are all over his lanky frame, she handles his body with ownership. Jessica drops his ankles abruptly when she’s done, letting them thump to the ground and stands upright, towering over him.

Groaning, Kilgrave tries to turn, sideways this time, curling inward, knees hooking up, shoulder curling down.

_Don’t_ , he wants to say.

Silent, he fears she might have seen already. Kilgrave’s favour lends toward tight clothing, but it leaves little to the imagination when he’s splayed out under her feet like this. In his fantasies there was less punching and more caressing but Kilgrave has been in a state of confusion, lust, since she yelled ‘Hey, asshole’ across the street days ago. He tries to hide it, but Jessica’s boot grinds against his wounded shoulder, pinning his torso to the floor, making the erection more noticeable as he arches. He pants out against the flare of pain in his shoulder, blood roaring in his ears, and feels her gaze rake over him from shoulder to crotch. “Not so slim,” she says; then adds offhandedly. “It didn't occur to you it might be safer using a telephone to talk to me?  Has no one ever taught you the difference between good touch and bad touch, Kevin?”

He’s not fussy when it comes to her. “I’ll take whatever touch you’re willing to give.”

The words are on the tip of his tongue; trapped under duct tape, muffled by rolling hate, they remain unspoken. The evidence, damning, is outlined in his trouser pants. He can’t read her expression, if it’s disgust, surprise or consideration. He can’t understand why Jessica reads the sentiment so easily on his own expression when he can’t get a handle on any of hers.  He still wants her.  Even after everything that’s happened he wants her.  Even like this.

She pulls back, takes her boot off him, and says dismissively. “Nothing you’ve done suggests remorse. You never had a chance with me. _Ever_.”

Kilgrave breathes out through his nose, turns his cheek away, and feels his cock pulse within its confinement, his heart-rate elevated. He’s going to have her, or he’s going to kill her, it’s the only outcome worth accepting when he gets his hands on dear old dad. There are five steps to grief: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and _acceptance_.  That's the way it's going to be.

Kilgrave never asked about Jessica’s own journey down the rotten path of self-discovery.  She says easily, before she steps out the broken door: “I’m going to save Hope. Or I’m going to kill you. Dwell on that asshole.”

 


End file.
